


i will steady your hand when you're losing your grip

by firefall



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Bad Parenting, Best Friends, Bisexual Bill Denbrough, Blood and Injury, Bullying, Canon Compliant, Child Neglect, Childhood Trauma, Crying, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Gen, Growing Up Together, High School, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sad Bill Denbrough, The World Is A Big Bad Scary Place But We'll Survive It If We Love Each Other, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-08 10:49:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21474775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefall/pseuds/firefall
Summary: “Okay,” Eddie says, slapping Bill on the back as they arrive at the end of Eddie’s driveway.  “You gonna be okay going the last couple blocks by yourself?”The question is routine by now, asked every single day since 1989.  The answer is too, Bill waving away Eddie’s concern with a smile that crinkles his eyes.  “Yeah, I’m good.  You know m-m-m-me.”That’s the problem, Eddie thinks, watching him go.  Idoknow you.Bill's in a bad way and Eddie loves him through it.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Eddie Kaspbrak, The Losers Club - Relationship
Comments: 20
Kudos: 102





	i will steady your hand when you're losing your grip

**Author's Note:**

> This is a combination of book and movie canon, including the deleted scenes from It (2017). No matter what medium you've consumed, it'll make sense, though. I promise.
> 
> Warnings for: canon child neglect, child abuse, racism (mentioned) and homophobia. Also swearing, underage drinking, bullying, and myriad poor teenage choices.
> 
> Title from "Fire Away" by Niall Horan.
> 
> Many thanks to my love Ameet for being my Fic Hero yet again!!! LOVEYOULOVEYOULOVEYOU
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own "It" and am not profiting off this work in any way. All characters and plotlines belong to Stephen King and Andy Muschietti.

It starts with Bill telling Mrs. Minder to fuck off.

It’s not grand or well done and comes out sounding more like “fuh-fuh-fuck _off_” but it makes the room go silent, their entire Algebra class staring at him in shock.

Mrs. Minder’s eyes are huge. “Excuse me, Mr. Denbrough?”

“You h-heard me,” Bill says petulantly, dropping the broken piece of chalk back onto the metal ledge of the blackboard. The clatter is so loud in the noiseless classroom that it makes Eddie flinch. “You can fuck right off. I t-t-_told_ you I didn’t know the answer!”

It’s fair enough – Bill _did _tell her and multiple times, too – but the school system has never exactly cared about fair. Mrs. Minder’s face goes red-hot with anger and she stalks from the classroom on clicking heels, dragging Bill to the principal’s office by his ear.

As soon as her footsteps fade away, the room dissolves into hooting laughter and cries of disbelief. “I didn’t know Stuttering Bill had it in him!” Greta Keene howls, face twisted into an ugly, sneering smile. “That little fucker’s usually so timid!”

The comment makes Eddie roll his eyes. _His_ Big Bill? Timid? Hardly. But, then again, only five other people in the world knew what Bill Denbrough looked like with fire in his eyes and a bolt gun in his hand, finger pressed firmly to the trigger. That was nearly four years ago now and Eddie still hasn’t forgotten it. Bill had been half-crazed and so fucking brave that it’d taken Eddie’s breath away.

They’d all been brave in their own way, fighting and kicking and scratching, but sometimes when things get quiet and unsure and overwhelming, Eddie thinks the bravest thing they’ve ever done is continue on. They’re in high school now, all juniors save for poor Stanley who isn’t even sixteen yet, and they’re alive. They’re alive but, more importantly, they’re _living_, too. As best as they can.

“What happened to your friend, man?” a boy laughs out, shoving at Eddie’s shoulder and jarring him from his thoughts. He wipes at the sleeve of his t-shirt as casually as he can, barely resisting the urge to wrinkle his nose as he imagines the boy’s germs squirming all over him. It makes him feel gross. “He’s gone buck wild!”

What _hasn’t_ happened to Bill is a better question, but Eddie doesn’t say that. No, instead he shrugs wordlessly, turns away from the boy, and focuses on finishing his math homework until the bell rings, signaling that yet another hellish school day is finally over.

“The pr-pr-principal is a fucking idiot,” Bill says decisively when he joins the rest of the Losers at their meeting spot on the edge of the parking lot, tucked behind the old rusty school bus that hasn’t moved in over a decade. The Class of 1981 had slashed the tires for their senior prank and their poor, broken-down school – one of the poorest in all of Maine – never found the funds to fix it. Richie nearly buzzes out of his skin with excitement every single time he thinks about it, dark eyes alight with the endless possibilities for their own senior prank.

“If ’81 can do something so fucking destructive that we’re still feeling the effects twelve years later, imagine what ’94 could do!” he’ll always say, manically shoving his glasses back up onto his nose. “We fought a demon and _won_, guys…there ain’t _nobody_ as destructive as us!”

But Richie isn’t talking about the school bus this time. This time he starts a slow clap as Bill approaches, face written with awe that is only slightly put-upon. “There’s the delinquent himself!” he crows. “Did you get detention?”

“Nah.” Bill shakes his head. “First time offence, I g-g-guess. They’re just sending this n-note home.” He holds it out to them and Beverly snatches it from his hands before anyone else can.

“_Unsavory vocabulary and disrespectful commentary_,” she reads, laughter in her voice. “_Disciplinary action to follow if behavior does not improve_. Damn, that’s pretty intense, Big Bill. Next thing you know you’re gonna be smoking in a bathroom stall during Home Ec. while a bunch of rich bitches scream about what a slut you are.”

It’s said with a self-deprecating twist of her mouth and it makes Eddie’s stomach burn with anger and injustice. He reaches over to smooth a hand down her back just so she knows he loves her. She must get the message, because she offers him a small smile in answer and gives his hand a quick squeeze before dropping it.

“He’s a fucking idiot,” Bill repeats and then they hike their backpacks up and head out.

The clown isn’t coming back for at least twenty-three years (if It’s even coming back at all) and the remaining members of the Bowers gang, Victor and Belch, are hilariously impotent without their ringleader around, so there really isn’t any reason for the Losers to walk home together every day. They’d be perfectly safe by themselves – though ‘safe’ is relative in a town like Derry Fucking Maine – but old habits die hard. Personally, Eddie never wants to be alone ever again. Bad things happen when you’re alone. He wishes he didn’t know that.

His friends disappear one by one, calling back enthusiastic _see ya_’s as they clomp up their porch steps, until it’s only Eddie and Bill left. Being alone like this, just the two of them, always reminds Eddie of times long past, of being eight years old and scared of his own shadow. Bill was his only friend back then, hands steady as he guided Eddie’s inhaler to his lips during a particularly bad asthma attack and friendly smile never dropping even when Eddie would burst into tears at the slightest of provocations. The world made sure Eddie knew he didn’t deserve to be loved, but Bill was always right there doing it anyway.

Eddie doesn’t love anyone like he loves Bill Denbrough. He kind of thinks he never will.

So he keeps his voice quiet and nonjudgmental when he asks, “Are you gonna give the note to your parents? I can forge your mom’s signature if you want. I’ve gotten pretty good at it.”

But Bill just shakes his head. “They probably won’t even read it,” he says and there’s a hint of wistfulness in it, like he almost wishes they would. “They don’t care w-w-what I do.”

Eddie doesn’t argue with him. There’s no point – Bill’s not wrong. The Denbroughs haven’t cared about much of anything in a very, _very_ long time. “Okay,” Eddie says instead, slapping Bill on the back as they arrive at the end of Eddie’s driveway. He can see the TV on through the front picture window. Ma’s home as usual. “You gonna be okay going the last couple blocks by yourself?”

The question is routine by now, asked every single day since 1989. The answer is too, Bill waving away Eddie’s concern with a smile that crinkles his eyes. “Yeah, I’m good. You know m-m-m-me.”

_That’s the problem_, Eddie thinks, watching him go. _I _do_ know you_.

And so that’s how it starts, with one well-placed “fuck off” and Eddie’s best friend in the whole world disappearing around the corner flanked by no one.

_-_-_-_

When Eddie stumbles out of his house the next morning, bleary-eyed with the early hour, Bill isn’t there. It happens on occasion, so Eddie doesn’t worry, just collects the newspaper from the end of the driveway and plucks a few spindly weeds from his ma’s flowerbed to kill some time. 

As he’s blowing away the white tufts from the end of a dying dandelion, watching them float away in the cool breeze, Eddie’s watch beeps the eight o’clock hour and _that’s_ when he starts worrying. He can’t hang around waiting all morning if he wants to get to school on time, but Bill would have called if he was sick or something. It was a Losers’ Club rule – if you were going to miss school, you phoned whoever was next to you on the route. 

He goes back inside to check the answering machine, footsteps quiet so as not to wake the beast in her rocking chair, but there’s nothing. Finally Eddie just has to leave.

“No Billy?” Stan asks as he falls into step next to Eddie a couple streets over. His shirt is tucked immaculately into his jeans and his sneakers are bright white like he spent the morning scrubbing them clean. His unruly blond curls are swept to the side, tamed as much as they can be. Eddie thinks he looks very handsome. “I wonder if his folks laid into him.”

“Doubt it.”

Stan laughs a little. “You’re probably right. That’s good for him, at least.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, though he’s not sure he means it.

They meet up with Ben next, then Richie, then Beverly who’s sporting a dark purple bruise on her left cheek that wasn’t there the day before. She’s tried to cover it up with makeup, but it still stands out harshly against her pale, freckled skin. It makes Eddie’s stomach hurt.

“I swear to God I’m gonna kill him one day,” Ben spits out, taking her jaw gently in his hand and turning her face so he can get a better look at the injury. “Slowly and painfully.”

“I’ll bring the bat, buddy,” Richie says, face dark and stormy. “Motherfucker won’t even know what hit him.”

“Let it go,” Bev says, voice very carefully light. “I got mouthy. It happens.”

“You could call him every cuss in the book and you still wouldn’t deserve that,” Eddie points out even though he knows she knows that. Knowing and believing are two different things. If Eddie believed even half of the things he knew, he wouldn’t still have an inhaler in his pocket and three different pill bottles in the bottom of his backpack.

Stan loops an arm around Beverly’s shoulders, leading her down the sidewalk and speaking quietly to her. Eddie, Richie, and Ben hang back, letting them have some semblance of privacy. Ever since It, there’s been some kind of invisible string connecting Stan and Bev, drawing them back together over and over. Eddie thinks it’s because they saw something the rest of the Losers didn’t. Something in the deadlights. Eddie doesn’t envy them.

When they finally get to the mercantile downtown, Mike is waiting for them on the bench out front. He greets them with a big, beautiful smile that drops when he catches sight of Beverly’s cheek and their forlorn faces. Without a word, he goes to Bev’s other side and puts an arm around her waist, situating himself as her great protector. Beverly grins and drops her head onto his shoulder.

Eddie’s concern for Bev manages to distract him from the stomach-churning Bill situation all the way until last period – Algebra with dear old Mrs. Minder. The desk next to Eddie’s is empty and it feels like some sort of physical weight on his shoulders. Something’s wrong. Something’s _really_ wrong.

He’s not sure how he knows that, but after everything they’ve been through, he’s learned to trust his instincts. So once dinner’s over and Ma’s fast asleep in the recliner, Eddie gathers what meager courage he can find and marches himself down to the Denbroughs’.

Bill’s mother answers the door, pale as a ghost. 

“Yes? Can I help you?” she says, voice pitched high and confused like she doesn’t recognize him. It annoys the absolute shit out of Eddie and a wave of prickly anger washes over him. He used to be over every Friday night for dinner – he and Bill used to share fucking _beds_, for God’s sake. 

“Is Bill okay?” he asks harshly, hoping the implied _not that you care_ comes across loud and clear. “He wasn’t at school today.”

“He wasn’t?” Mrs. Denbrough says, blinking in surprise. “Then where was he?”

Eddie huffs an impatient sigh. “That’s what I’m asking _you_!” He can hear Ma’s voice in the back of his head – _do be polite, Eddie bear!_ – but he ignores it. “Is he sick? Hurt? Tired?”

“I—” She looks behind her at the stairs, like she’s remembering her son for the very first time. She probably is. “I don’t know.”

“What _do_ you know?” Eddie demands, the taken aback look on Mrs. Denbrough’s face sending a surge of power zinging through his body like he hasn’t felt since roundhouse kicking It right in the stupid fucking clown nose. It feels like being in control. “Do you know _anything _about your son? Did you know he won an award in his creative writing class for Best Short Story? Did you know he got his mile run down to six minutes in PE? Did you know he turned seventeen _two fucking weeks ago_?”

That one makes Mrs. Denbrough’s mouth come to life. “I know when my son’s birthday is,” she snaps. “It’s in November.”

“That’s Georgie’s,” Eddie says coldly. “Now go upstairs and see if Bill’s in his room.”

Shamefaced, she obeys.

As it turns out, Bill _isn’t_ in his room. Or the bathroom. Or in the house at all. The discovery brings Eddie right up the edge of a panic attack, fumbling his inhaler from his pocket and taking two big puffs, back turned to Mrs. Denbrough in his embarrassment. God, he wishes he wasn’t so weak. The mixture of tap water and camphor calms him long enough to take his leave, slamming the front door emphatically behind him.

_Fuck_.

Eddie hasn’t considered himself a Methodist in a while – coming face to face with a demon would be enough to knock the religion out of anyone, he thinks – but he prays to the ceiling that night, hidden somewhere out of sight in the darkness. “Keep him safe,” he mutters aloud, cheeks heating even though there’s no one around to hear him. “Please, God. I—I love him, okay?”

There’s no answer, not that Eddie expected there to be.

_-_-_-_

Bill doesn’t come to school for the rest of the week.

When Saturday rolls around and there’s still no sign of their friend – nor any sign of concern from his parents, Eddie notes bitterly – the Losers file a Missing Persons report with the cops. Or at least…they try to, huddled around the Police Chief’s shabby desk like a scrawny, teenaged wall.

“It’s been almost four days,” Ben tells the man, worry written into the lines of his ruddy face. “And this isn’t like him. He’d never disappear without telling us where he was going.”

Chief Borton takes his glasses off to clean them on his shirt, his disinterest apparent. “You sure he’s not with a girl?” he asks, squinting at them. “Nine times out of ten a missing boy is holed up with a girl somewhere getting a little practice in, if you catch my drift.”

Beverly rolls her eyes so hard the green irises nearly disappear somewhere up in her head. She’s the only girl Big Bill has ever liked and Eddie knows for a fact they never _practiced_ anything. “Not Bill,” she says firmly, glaring.

“Okay, a boy then.” Borton shrugs. “It is 1993, after all. The queers don’t stay in the closet like they used to. Which, if you ask me, is a crying shame.”

Eddie can feel Richie bristle next to him. “What the fuck did you say?” he demands, his voice shaking with anger. “What’s _wrong_ with you?”

“Rich,” Eddie murmurs soothingly, reaching over to rub a gentle hand over his back. His hand bumps into Mike’s who had the same idea. “He’s not worth it.”

The Chief doesn’t seem to notice Richie’s distress. “All I’m saying is, I don’t think there’s anything to worry about yet. If he’s not back by Wednesday, try again.”

“This is _Derry_!” Stanley cries in disbelief, the statement exploding from his mouth with so much force, the room collectively flinches. “Derry, Maine! The place where kids disappear at a bazillion times the normal rate and then show up dead in the sewer system with their limbs ripped off within the week! Have you forgotten that? Or do you just not care?”

“Of course I care, kid,” Borton says, though the way he pulls out a piece of paperwork from an unrelated casefile and starts to skim over it says otherwise. “And it doesn’t actually happen as often as you think. The newspapers like to embellish. We haven’t been able to find a pattern in the killings yet and I don’t think we ever will.”

“Oh, well, fuck you then!” Stan’s chest is heaving like he just ran a marathon. Eddie watches him with a critical doctor’s eye, ready to pass his inhaler over if need be. “Thanks for nothing!”

Borton grunts and leans over to write something down, wordlessly dismissing them.

Derry is a mind-blowingly backwards town, hatred and prejudice practically written into the very soil, so often when the Losers are out and about, Mike keeps his mouth shut. It’s understandable, Eddie thinks, considering the way the Bowers and their ilk have been trying to drive the Hanlons from the town limits for almost twenty years. He’s never forgotten the story of how Henry killed Mike’s dog. It’s fucking ghastly is what it is. 

But today Mike can’t keep silent. Today beautiful, wonderful Mike gets the last word in. “When me and my friends are the adults, we’ll care,” he says, voice quiet but full of so much strength Eddie’s insides quake. “We’ll do something about it. We’ll be braver than any of you ever were and we’ll _save_ the kids, you hear me? We’ll save them.”

When they step back out into the bright sunlight, Stan wraps his arms around Mike and kisses his forehead, not caring who sees. It makes a tear skate down Eddie’s cheek.

_-_-_-_

They spend the rest of the weekend searching for Bill. They try every place they can think of – the Barrens, the gravel pit, the old clubhouse, the Tracker Brothers’ trucking depot, the Standpipe, even the exploded ruins of the Kitchener Ironworks – but he’s nowhere to be found. Pretty soon the only place left to look is the Well House.

“Do you know how many nightmares I’ve had about this place?” Richie says as they step gingerly up onto the dilapidated steps. His dark eyes are huge behind his glasses. “If I end up shitting my pants you guys aren’t allowed to make fun of me.”

“Can’t make fun of you if we have, too,” Ben points out shakily, reaching out a tentative hand for the doorknob and stopping short at the last second. “Fuck, I can’t do it.”

“Speak for yourself,” Beverly says and if they were anywhere else there probably would’ve been a teasing lilt to it. Right now, though, she just sounds deadly serious. “I can make fun of whoever I want.”

Then she pushes the door open.

It smells exactly like Eddie remembers it, a weird watery, rotten odor that makes his eyes go wet and his skin crawl. He has to fight through bands of panic around his throat to keep sucking in harsh breaths, the useless hypochondriac that lives in his brain screaming not to let it into his lungs. They’re doing this for Bill. They can get through _anything_ if it’s for Bill.

There’s no mention of splitting up – one time was enough to teach them _that_ lesson – and they stick as close as possible as they move through the shitty-looking rooms and hallways. Eddie shivers when they get to the living room where he can so vividly remember breaking his arm and nearly being killed by It. The huge hole in the ceiling is still there, of course, and he whimpers out loud because he just can’t help it, burying his face in the closest shoulder. Richie’s.

“It’s okay, Eds,” Richie says, voice hushed and devoid of his usual crassness. “You’re safe. It’s dead.”

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie mumbles even though he doesn’t mind the nickname anymore. It’s grown on him. He just doesn’t want to say what he’s really thinking: how do they know It’s _actually_ dead? For all they know It could be hidden beneath the floorboards just waiting for them to take one wrong step.

But they can’t afford to think like that, so they keep going.

They clear the entire house, holding their noses when it gets particularly disgusting and clutching at each other’s t-shirts when the old building creaks and groans, until they’re standing together, shoulder-to-shoulder, at the edge of the well.

“Are we really gonna do it?” Mike says nervously, but Eddie knows it’s not a real question. Of _course_ they’re going to do it.

“Bill would do it for us,” he says simply, shrugging.

“Bill would do it for half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” Richie points out, fondly exasperated. “What Would Bill Do isn’t maybe the best game to play.”

Ben crouches down to pick up the old rope, sending up a cloud of dust that makes Eddie sneeze. “Beep beep, Trashmouth.”

“I’m just saying.”

They go down the rope into the well one by one, Mike first, then Beverly, Ben, and Richie until Eddie is left with only Stan. Stan, who upon further inspection, has silent tears pouring down his face.

“Oh, Stanny,” Eddie breathes, his heart lurching sympathetically in his chest. “Stan the Man. It’s okay, dude. If it’s too much, you don’t have to go down. I’ll stay up here with you, alright?”

Stan shakes his head vehemently, scrubbing at the wetness on his face with annoyance. Normally, Stanley looks like a miniature adult – clean clothes, straight posture, evenly cut fingernails – but right now he looks every inch the fifteen-year-old he is. Eddie wraps him in his arms.

“No, I wanna go,” Stan says, hiccupping a few times. His face is buried in Eddie’s neck. “If Bevvie can face it, so can I.”

“You’re so fucking brave, Stan,” Eddie says and then they take the final climb into the darkness.

They have six flashlights this time and they light up the tunnels as well as they can. Thankfully, it’s been a dry spring thus far so they only have to trounce through a couple inches of water, though the thought of wading through thousands of people’s pee still makes Eddie gag. He notes with relief that Stan and Beverly are holding hands, united as they step back into their own personal lions’ den. He’s glad they have each other.

A hand slips into Eddie’s as well and he grins, giving it a squeeze. “No cast this time,” Ben whispers, small smile making his chubby cheeks puff up. He’s fucking adorable. “So we’re already in better shape than before.”

“Hell yeah.”

The center of It’s lair is empty, save for the big pile of junk in the middle. As much as he tries not to, Eddie’s eyes make a beeline for Georgie’s yellow raincoat at the edge of the debris, lying alone and bloody where they left it four years ago. “_Shit_,” he chokes out, a lump in his throat. “I hate this.”

Mike ruffles his hair. “Let’s just clear the area and get the fuck out of here. In, out, done. We got this.”

Eddie nods jerkily, then cups his hands around his mouth and screams, “Bill! You down here?” 

No answer but an echo. The rest of the Losers join in, the gloomy chamber filling with wobbly shouts in a variety of pitches.

“Yo, Denbrough! You’re killin’ us, man!”

“Where you at, Big Bill?”

“If I never see your fine ass again, I’m gonna be pretty upset, buddy!”

“Ugh, beep _beep_, Richie!”

“Billy! C’mon…Billy?”

Just as Bev lets out a desperate, “Bill, sweetie, can you hear us?” something starts to happen. The sky-high junk pile begins to fall, but not how debris normally falls. No, the shit _floats_ down, like a feather fluttering to the ground. Or, Eddie thinks with a shudder, like a balloon that’s lost its helium.

His friends notice it the same time he does.

“Holy _shit_,” Richie screams, jamming his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose like he’s making sure he’s seeing correctly. “We need to get outta here!”

“He’s not here,” Beverly says decisively, green eyes wild. “If he was, he would’ve answered. Now _run_!”

And that’s exactly what they do, back through the tunnels and up the rope from the well, then through the hallways of the house and out onto the busted up sidewalk on Neibolt Street. Stanley is crying, but that’s okay because Eddie’s crying, too. He’s pretty sure they’re all crying.

They don’t stop to catch their breath until they’re outside the Church School where Mike used to go. Faint strains of gospel music waft from the windows, shut up tight against the chilly spring breeze. Eddie closes his eyes and lets the comforting sound of choir practice slow the pounding of his heart. He feels three different hands clutching at his body.

“I’m so glad he wasn’t down there,” Ben finally says after a while. “That means It didn’t get him.”

“Yeah, but then where the fuck is he?” Eddie wheezes, studiously not reaching into his pocket for his inhaler. He tries not to use it front of the Losers anymore.

The answering silence roars like thunder.

_-_-_-_

Eddie’s still awake past midnight, tossing and turning in his bed as images of floating detritus dance behind his eyelids. He’s no stranger to nightmares and waking dreams, but being in It’s lair has him more rattled than he’s been in a while. It almost feels like something came out with them. He hopes he’s wrong.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears a persistent tapping against his window. But when he launches himself to his feet, grabbing one of his dad’s old golf clubs he keeps next to his bed, it’s Bill’s face peering in through the glass.

Eddie drops the club immediately and scrambles to open the window, a cool feeling of relief flooding his body.

As soon as the layer of glass between them is gone, Eddie is hit with a wave of pungent alcohol smell that makes the relief evaporate in an instant. Bill has a dopey smile on his face and his eyes are unnaturally bright, like he barely knows where he is. All the terror of the past few days comes crashing down on Eddie’s head – a tricycle, a dirty sneaker, a yellow fucking raincoat – and suddenly he wants to wring Bill’s neck.

But first, he pulls him in through the window before he can fall off the porch roof in his drunken stupor and die. 

“What the _hell_, Bill!” he cries in a whisper, eyes raking his friend’s body. “What the fuck!”

Bill, quite frankly, looks like shit. His hair is greasy like it hasn’t been washed since he disappeared and his nose is running, snot dripping down almost to his upper lip. Even worse, Eddie can see that his jeans are wet – he’s pissed himself, though it’s impossible to tell how long ago. It makes Eddie want to scratch his own skin off, the thought of urine all over his room.

As if to spite him, Bill sways on his feet and stumbles over to sit in Eddie’s desk chair, but Eddie grabs his elbow and yanks him back before he manages it. “No!” he cries, furious. “You wet your pants, idiot! The only place you’re going is the shower.”

Bill’s brow crinkles up in confusion. “What?” he says, his first word since tumbling in through the window. He looks down at his lap, then groans much too loudly for the middle of the night. “Ah, fuck. Eds, I p-p-_peed_.”

Eddie laughs, but it’s all hysteria, no humor. “Oh my god, Bill, just—let’s go, okay?”

He drags his sloppy friend through the hallway to the bathroom, shushing him in annoyance when Bill giggles out, “You’re mad!” like it’s the funniest thing he can think of.

“Yeah, I’m fucking mad,” Eddie spits, reaching behind the shower curtain and turning the water on. He thinks about leaving it freezing – Bill would deserve it, after all – but even in his anger, Eddie isn’t that mean. He turns the knob to warm. “Me and the rest of the Losers have been worried sick about you – I mean absolutely _sick_! – and apparently you’ve just been out having a grand old time getting wasted!” He pauses to attack the buttons on Bill’s plaid shirt, yanking it from his friend’s body and throwing it to the floor. Bill hugs himself, shivering with cold. “Where did you even manage to get alcohol? It’s not like anyone in town would sell it to you.”

“Bangor,” Bill says matter-of-factly, vision going cross-eyed as he tries to get his belt off. Eddie huffs in irritation and finally unbuckles it himself, pulling it from Bill’s belt loops and adding it to the pile on the bathroom rug. 

“Bangor? And how did you get all the way to _Bangor_?”

“Rode Silver.” He laughs, a childish sound. “Hi-yo Silver, awaaaaay!”

Eddie isn’t sure who he wants to punch more: Bill or himself. “You rode Silver _drunk_?” he screeches, his sleeping ma be damned. “Do you _know_ what a bad idea that is?”

“Yep!” Bill says brightly, crashing into the bathroom cabinet as he tries to take his jeans off. When he clumsily rights himself, he looks up at Eddie with pleading eyes, his bottom lip poked out in a pout.

“No,” Eddie says, crossing his arms over his chest. “You can do your own pants, asshole. I’m not touching them. Underwear either.”

Bill, despite his soaring BAC, manages to wisecrack, “Am I n-not enough for you anymore, b-b-baby?”

That’s the last straw. Eddie grabs Bill by the shoulders and shoves him down roughly onto the closed toilet seat with a porcelain _thunk_. He jabs his finger into Bill’s bare chest and bursts out, “It’s not funny, Bill! You should’ve called us! Or even just left a note or something. We went to the cops for you – we went to _Neibolt_ for you! Do you get that? You—you made Stanley and Bevvie go to Neibolt for no reason and I’m never gonna—” Shit, he needs his inhaler. He can barely breathe. “I’m never gonna forgive you for that!”

The blood drains from Bill’s face and suddenly he looks stone-cold sober. “Neibolt?” he whispers, his body rigid and still. “You looked for m-me in the Well House?”

“Of course we did. We thought It got you.”

“Eds—” Bill starts, but then his eyes go wide and he claps a hand over his mouth, scrambling off the toilet to yank the seat up and puke into the bowl. Eddie sympathy-heaves, having to turn away and deep breathe. The vomiting sounds go on for way too long and by the time Bill is finally empty, he’s bawling like a baby.

Despite it all, the sobs tug at Eddie’s heartstrings. When Bill whimpers out, “Eddie?” there isn’t even a small part of him that doesn’t want to respond kindly.

Sighing heavily, Eddie drops to the floor behind Bill’s hunched frame and buries his face between his friend’s sharp shoulder blades. “You okay now?” he murmurs. “Think you can shower?”

“Y-yeah,” Bill sniffs. “And I’m really sorry. I w-w-wasn’t thinking. I just needed to get ow-ow-out.”

Now, an overwhelming urge to get as far away from this shitty town as possible? That’s something Eddie can understand. He thinks they’ve all felt like that at some point. “Well, next time you wanna get out, let us know, okay? And maybe take someone with you. Promise?”

Bill nods, finally reaching up to flush the toilet. “Pr-pr-pr-pr-_pr_—” He sighs, exasperated at his tangled tongue. “You know what I m-mean.”

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees. “I do.”

Once Bill is clean, Eddie gives him a pair of spare pajamas and pulls the covers down on his twin bed, gesturing for Bill to climb in. Bill hesitates, chewing on his lip nervously. “Won’t your mom be mad?” he asks and for good reason, too. Eddie’s ma is of the opinion that the only _appropriate_ physical contact between men is handshakes and fistfights. Eddie thinks it’s fucking ridiculous.

“Fuck her.”

Bill snorts a laugh. “Nah, that’s R-R-Richie’s gig,” he jokes, collapsing onto the bed in exhaustion. Eddie follows suit, pulling the blankets up to their chins.

Right before Bill drifts off to sleep, he murmurs something that sounds like “love you, Eds,” and Eddie prays to the ceiling one last time. 

_Thank you_, _thank you_, _thank you_.

_-_-_-_

Every stop along their route to school the next morning is lit up with relieved laughter and shouts of _Big Bill!_ that make Bill grin and throw his arms around their friends despite his massive hangover. Over a breakfast of jelly toast and Tylenol, he and Eddie had come to an unspoken agreement not to mention Bill’s drunken escapades. That was between Eddie and Bill and it was better to keep it that way.

“You had us nearly out of our minds, man,” Mike tells him, arm thrown casually around Bill’s neck as they walk. He stands a few inches taller than Bill now and much, much broader. He looks every bit the farmer’s son he is.

“I’m so s-sorry, Mikey. It won’t h-hap-happen again,” Bill says, face twisted with guilt, and that is that.

The day runs smoothly until sixth hour PE, the only class the entire Losers’ Club has together. It’s one of the much-anticipated free days when they’re allowed to do whatever activities they want, so Coach Card isn’t paying as much attention as he should be. Eddie and his friends have just barely started a game of three-on-three basketball – Richie is playing referee so his glasses won’t get broken – when Bradley Donovan walks up and purposefully smacks into Ben, making him fall to the floor. Ben yelps in surprise, face smashing into the hardwood.

Bradley used to be both a lisper and one of Bill’s casual friends in years past, but after a few choice words thrown Beverly’s way – about her mom, about her faded and torn clothes, about the fact that she’s the only girl in a big group of boys – they told him not to come around again. Which was an astute judgment call on their parts, because with his lisp gone and the Bowers gang disbanded, Bradley and his meathead buddies have tried their best to step up and fill the bully void. They’re no Bowers or Hockstetter, but they _are_ a nuisance and Eddie feels anger creep up into the back of his throat as he rushes over to make sure Ben’s okay.

“Watch where you’re going, fat ass,” Bradley sneers, smirking when Ben flushes red with embarrassment.

“He’s a jackass,” Eddie whispers to Ben, grabbing his friend’s hand and pulling him up to his feet. He pushes Ben’s hair out of his face to make sure there are no bruises starting on his forehead or nose. He looks okay thus far. “We’re gonna ignore him like we always do, alright? He’ll get bored and go bother someone else.”

But Bill must not get the memo, because he marches across the scuffed gym floor to stand before Bradley, face written with rage. “D-d-don’t talk to h-him li-li-li-li-_like_ that!” Bill orders, angry passion making his stutter worse just like it always does. “You’re s-such a fucking d-d-d-_d_—”

“A fucking what? Spit it out, B-B-Billy!” Bradley raises his eyebrows with a challenge, not waiting for an answer before he adds, “Haven’t seen you around lately…I thought we finally got rid of you. Thought you got dragged away by the kid killer or something!”

“—a fucking _dick_!” Bill finally shouts, then punches Bradley Donovan right in the nose.

Blood pours down Bradley’s face and everything dissolves into chaos.

Bradley’s lackeys jump on Bill immediately, wrestling him to the ground and hitting him in the face, the stomach, anywhere they can reach. One of the bigger boys grabs Bill by the hair and starts slamming his head backwards into the gym floor until Bill’s angry fists loosen into panicked fingers that scratch desperately at his assailants’ skin. He looks distant and confused, his bottom lip busted open.

“You leave him the fuck alone!” Beverly screams, rushing them and bringing a cruel foot up between the closest boy’s legs. He moans in pain and crumples to the floor, one less set of violent hands for Bill to worry about.

The sight is enough to shake the rest of the Losers out of their shocked reverie and then it’s an all-out war, bloodier and angrier than even the apocalyptic rock fight against Henry and his goons. Eddie is screeching wordlessly, kicking and clawing as he fights his way to Bill’s side. A stray fist gets him right in the eye and it waters straightaway, but he ignores it in favor of tucking his fingers into Bill’s armpits and dragging his trembling body away from the battle. God, he hopes Bill doesn’t have a concussion.

“That was _stupid_, Bill!” he hisses, helping him sit up. Bill groans, holding his head. “You know taking on Bradley means taking on, like, eight guys!”

A couple yards away, Stanley yanks himself from some boy’s grasp, screaming, “You think I’m scared of _you_? You’re nothing!” He karate chops his attacker in the throat, making the boy gag and bend over, panting for breath. “Bitch!”

“We gotta h-h-help them,” Bill mumbles out just as Bradley rips Richie’s glasses right off his face and snaps them in half. Richie instantly shies away, nearly blind and terrified. Bill tries to stand up, but only gets about halfway before he moans and falls back onto his ass. “They’re gonna get k-killed!”

Eddie wants to say _and whose fault is that?_ but he doesn’t get the chance because Coach Card is suddenly there, grabbing kids by their collars and tossing them to the ground. “You wanna fight, do it on your own time!” he roars, face red with anger. “Bunch of sissies!”

“You can’t call us that!” one of Bradley’s friends gasps out, nursing a black eye that probably matches the one Eddie has. “You’re a teacher!”

“I can call you whatever I want when you waste my time getting in cat fights,” Coach shoots back with a glare. “Now which one of you idiots started this?”

When they all answer at once, yelling and pointing at each other, Coach holds up a hand to silence them. “No. Shut it. Just tell me who threw the first punch or you’re all getting suspended.”

A smirk on his lips and an evil glint in his eyes, Bradley says smugly, knowing he’s won, “That would be Bill Denbrough, sir. Punched me right in the face.”

And that’s how Bill ends up in the principal’s office for the second time in less than a week. This time Eddie and the rest of the Losers huddle outside the door, ears straining to hear what’s going on inside. Because it’s not just Bill and the principal in there – there’s a _cop_, too.

“What if he goes to jail?” Mike whispers, voice shaking with worry. There’s dried blood at the corner of his mouth. “They’ll ship him all the way to Portland.”

The thought makes Eddie swallow hard. His voice is high and thin when he asks, “Well, it’ll only be juvie, right? Because he’s seventeen?”

“Nah, they can try seventeen-year-olds as adults if they want,” Ben says wisely. Eddie wants to throw up. “He’s toast.”

“Ugh, shut up,” Beverly snaps in irritation. “He’s not going to jail. It was just a stupid little high school fight. If Bowers and the rest never got hauled in, Bill won’t either.”

“You have more faith in the Derry justice system than me, babe,” Richie whispers, wincing as he rubs at his eyes. He’d attempted to fix his glasses with tape, but there wasn’t enough in the whole school to make them wearable again. He keeps squinting and nearly walking into things – Eddie can’t even imagine the headache he must have. “Unless you’re sucking policeman dick, nothing can protect you.”

“So you should be fine, then,” Stan quips and, despite it all, the Losers giggle. Even Eddie can’t help himself.

“I am going to _murder _you,” Richie hisses through his teeth, but before Stanley can answer back, there’s a loud crash behind the principal’s door and the office erupts with irate shouts.

“My son’s out there with a black eye, a bloody nose, and two broken ribs! _Two!_” someone bellows in a deep baritone. “And _somebody_ has to answer for that, you understand? He could’ve been killed!”

“Wait,” Ben whispers, eyes widening with recognition. “Ezra Flannigan! That cop’s his _dad_!”

“_Shit_.” Eddie’s not sure who says it. Not that it matters – there’s not a one of them that isn’t thinking it.

“I could press charges against you!” Officer Flannigan continues and Eddie shoves his hand into his jeans pocket, protectively curling his fingers around the plastic shape of his inhaler. Even after everything, it comforts him. “I could send you to the fucking west coast!”

It goes on like that for nearly five minutes, Eddie’s shoulders getting tenser and tenser as he listens. Occasionally there’s a soft answer from Bill, something too quiet to hear, but it’s never more than a few words. When Bill finally stumbles out of the office, his face is pale. The redness of his busted lip stands out harshly.

He’s not at all surprised to see them. “Hey guys,” he says, voice rough. “Guess I g-g-get a week off of s-school.”

The relief that seeps through the hallway is palpable, shoulders sagging and deep breaths exploding from panicked lungs. “No charges?” Eddie asks hopefully, offering his friend a small smile.

“No charges.” Bill smiles back. “J-just suspension. I’ll be f-f-fine.”

“You are one lucky son of a bitch,” Richie laughs, reaching out blindly to slap Bill on the back and missing by a mile. It smacks Mike in the stomach instead. “Whoops, sorry, Mikey.”

“Mistake me for a white boy again, I dare you,” Mike teases, rolling his eyes.

“Eddie, is that you?”

“Oh, fuck off!”

As the Losers’ Club stumble from the back door of the school, bloody and bruised but happy, they’re all laughing. Well, all of them except Bill, Eddie notices. Bill’s face is stormy and just plain exhausted. Eddie hangs back to walk next to him.

“Alright?” Eddie asks quietly.

“Always,” Bill says and it’s the biggest fucking lie Eddie’s ever heard.

_-_-_-_

Eddie spends the rest of the evening in the ER getting poked and prodded and x-rayed. His ma even demands a drug test, shoving him into one of the family bathrooms and hovering across the room at the sink as Eddie, red-faced, tries to go in a cup.

After several embarrassing minutes, Eddie finally snaps, “Ma, I can’t pee with you breathing down my neck! If you want your results, you’re gonna have to get out of here.”

“I am your _mother_, Eddie,” she snaps back, chest heaving like his audacity literally chased the air from her lungs.

“Exactly! And I want you out!”

“How do I know you’re not going to put chemicals in it?” she cries thunderously. There’s no way the doctors and nurses can’t hear her through the door. The thought is so humiliating Eddie could cry. “Or swap it out for someone else’s urine? Not that you could use any of your friends’, of course. They’re even dirtier than you are.”

“I swear to God if you don’t leave this bathroom immediately, I will pack up my things and I will move in with Richie. Understand?” Eddie says darkly. “And stop talking shit about my friends.”

He hears a deep intake of breath from behind him and he knows he’s won. There’s nothing in the whole wide world Sonia Kaspbrak is more afraid of than being left alone. It’s where all this hyper-controlling bullshit started in the first place. If Eddie were a better person he might feel bad about blackmailing his own mother, but he doesn’t. It’s the only way to get results with her.

“Fine,” she says sadly, like she’s trying to guilt trip him. She’s fighting a losing battle, though – Eddie is just months shy of adulthood and he refuses to be guilt tripped ever again. “If that test comes back positive, you’re going to have to pack your things anyway.”

It’s an even bigger lie than Bill’s. The door finally closes behind her.

The drug test comes back negative, of course. The x-rays show no broken or fractured bones and the doctor who did his checkup swears that Eddie doesn’t have even a slight concussion. 

“Just a regular old shiner,” the graying man says with a kind smile. Eddie can’t help but smile back, kicking his feet where he’s perched on the exam table. “It’ll heal up in a couple days.”

“And what about prescriptions?” Ma asks, fumbling for her purse as if there’s more than two bucks and a wad of old Snickers wrappers inside. She never has any money – if it weren’t for welfare, food stamps, and Eddie’s dad’s life insurance policy, they’d be starving and homeless. Sometimes Eddie thinks Ma loves the life insurance more than she ever loved Dad. “He can’t be getting infected.”

They know Sonia Kaspbrak at Derry Home Hospital – very, _very_ well – so the doctor doesn’t even flinch. “Bruises rarely get infected,” he says as reassuringly as possible. “If you have concerns, feel free to phone the hospital, but I don’t foresee any issues. Now, let’s get this kid back home in time for dinner, shall we?”

Bill comes to Eddie’s window again that night, sober but looking utterly lost. 

“C-c-can I sleep here tonight?” he asks quietly, lips wobbly with emotion. “My parents aren’t h-home and I’m—” He cuts himself off before he can say _scared_, but Eddie hears it anyway.

“Of course.” Eddie lends him the same pajamas as the night before. “Where did your parents go?”

“Acadia,” Bill chokes out, face screwed up like he’s trying not to break down. The sight makes Eddie ache all the way down to his bones. “They l-lef-lef-left a note on the f-fridge.”

“Oh my _god_,” Eddie breathes, eyes wide. “Acadia?”

“Acadia.”

They lie down in bed and Bill doesn’t cry, but Eddie holds him around the waist all the same.

_-_-_-_

Bill is gone when Eddie wakes up for school the next morning, his borrowed pajamas folded neatly and draped across Eddie’s desk chair. As Eddie gathers them up to put them in the wash, a folded piece of paper flutters to the ground.

_I need to get out_, it says. It’s signed with a big, loopy B that Eddie recognizes from when they used to practice their “autographs” back in middle school. Bill’s signature was always the best. Sometimes Eddie wonders if he’ll end up famous.

“Idiot,” Eddie sighs, tossing the paper down onto his desk, but he can’t be too annoyed. He asked Bill to leave a note and he did. At least they don’t have to be worried that he’s been dismembered by a child-eating demon clown.

At least…probably not, anyway.

It wasn’t until Eddie was about fifteen that he’d realized that his relationship with Bill almost bordered on hero worship. He’d be more embarrassed about that if the rest of the Losers weren’t just as bad. Bill was their strong, fearless leader who rode the fastest bike in town, who was caring and brave and lovely, who stole the word “loser” straight from the bullies’ mouths and turned it into something to be proud of. 

The point is, Eddie misses Bill to a pathetic degree. School isn’t the same without him, as much as they all try to carry on as usual. By the time Bill’s week-long suspension is up, the Losers are practically chomping at the bit in anticipation of his return. They decide to go to the quarry after school to celebrate.

They don’t look the same as they did at thirteen, especially Beverly, but they still strip down to their underwear with minimal awkwardness. It’s not surprising – their sense of normalcy has always been a little fucked up. Eddie’s not sure what _normal_ even is anymore.

“If even one of you leers at me, I will shove your testicles back up into your body,” Beverly threatens, adjusting the strap on her bra so it’ll stop falling down. Her face is soft, though, like she knows she has nothing to worry about. “Got it?”

“Wouldn’t d-dream of it,” Bill tells her, face lit with his first genuine smile in weeks. Then he grabs her by the hand and jumps off the edge of the cliff into the water below, pulling her with him. They whoop happily as they come up for air.

“What about you, Eds?” Richie asks, face serious in a way that proves he’s being anything but. He pokes Eddie in the stomach. “Am I allowed to leer at _you_?”

“You fucking wish,” Eddie snorts, shoving at him playfully.

“Maybe so!” Richie says and then he’s jumping off, too.

Eddie throws himself off next, hand-in-hand with Stanley, and Mike and Ben follow quickly after. It’s barely May so the water is still cool, making Eddie’s skin erupt in goosebumps and his teeth chatter together so violently that they click. But then Bill is there, rubbing warm hands over Eddie’s bare shoulders and arms.

“Gonna have a Kaspbrak p-pop-popsicle in a minute,” he laughs, shaking his wet hair so it sprays in Eddie’s face. Eddie halfheartedly bats him away. “And th-then where will we b-b-be?”

“Get on my shoulders,” Stanley orders. “I’ll warm you up.”

So Eddie does as he’s told and they spend the afternoon having chicken fights and underwater wrestling matches just like when they were little kids. Eddie’s still the smallest – even Beverly’s got about a half-inch on him – so he gets passed from friend to friend easy as anything and it warms him up from the inside out. The setting sun glints on everyone’s hair and brings out the gold in Mike and Stan’s eyes and Eddie can’t look away. He loves them. God help him, he loves them all.

Just as the sun slips below the tree line, Richie brings out a bottle of Jack and they stop feeling like kids again in a hurry. Eddie only takes one swig, trying to ignore the way he can _feel_ his liver scarring, but the rest of the Losers pass it around and around. They drop out one by one until it’s just Bill with the last couple inches of whiskey.

“You’ve had enough, Billy,” Eddie says quietly, reaching out for the bottle. “C’mon, lemme have it.”

“Why?” Bill slurs, gaze unfocused. His dopey smile is way too familiar for Eddie’s liking. “You ain’t gon’ drink it.”

“And you aren’t either,” Eddie says firmly. “Lemme have it.”

“No.”

Eddie sucks in a deep breath, nostrils flaring. “Don’t be stupid! You need to—”

“Come _ooooon_, Eds!” Ben cuts in from where he’s lying on his back, looking up at the last visible clouds in the dying light. Beverly’s head is pillowed on his shoulder. “Let ‘im ‘ave some fun!”

“Oh, shut the fuck up.”

Mind made up, Eddie grabs the bottle from Bill’s clumsy grip and throws it into the lake. His friends whine in protest but he’s resolute. It’s all well and good when you’re drinking for fun, like Mike or Bev or Stan or Ben or Richie, but Eddie knows _Bill_ isn’t drinking for fun. He’s drinking to _forget_ and that’s something else entirely. Eddie’s not going to stand by and watch his best friend ruin his life.

But some things are easier said than done and when Bill decides he’s going to ride Silver down Up-Mile Hill there’s nothing Eddie can do to stop him.

Even in their drunken state, the rest of the Losers are smart enough not to get on their bikes, pushing them by the handlebars as they walk on the side of the road. But not Bill, who climbs right onto his behemoth of a bike and wobbles down the middle of the street, crying out in pain at one point when he slides off the seat and smashes his crotch into the crossbar. 

“Just get off it, stupid!” Eddie yells after him, shaking his head. “I swear to God, Bill!”

“Takin’ the h-hill!” Bill calls back and Eddie’s blood turns to ice.

At his comment, the alcohol haze lifts and Eddie’s friends are just as terrified as he is.

“Wait, is he talking about—?” Mike cries, throwing his bike to the ground and racing after Bill on unsteady legs.

“Bitch, you _know_ he is!” Richie wheezes, following suit.

Eddie, on the other hand, jumps _onto _his bike, pumping his legs as fast as he can to try and catch Bill before he rounds the corner. He almost makes it; Bill’s flapping plaid shirt actually brushes against his outstretched fingertips, but then Silver’s tires hit the decline and it’s literally all downhill from there.

Eddie skids to a stop at the top of the hill, watching in horror as the world moves in slow motion. As Silver careens on the double yellow lines, Bill pulls himself up to a standing position, shouting happily as his brown hair flutters in the wind. Then the happy sounds turn into yelps of distress as Bill presses on the handle brakes and the tires spin out instead of catching. He tries again and they spin again, kicking up gravel. He’s got to be going almost thirty miles an hour, whipping down the steep hill, and when the brakes finally kick in Bill’s thrown over his handle bars and onto the rough asphalt. 

When Eddie reaches Bill, his body is still and the side of his face is so torn up he’s nearly unrecognizable. He’s unconscious.

“Someone go up to one of the houses and ask them to call 911!” Eddie shrieks, hands shaking as he pushes Bill’s shirt up to make sure he hasn’t absolutely fucking gutted himself. Mercifully, he hasn’t. His ribs and stomach are already starting to bruise, though – it’s going to hurt like a bitch when this is over. “We need an ambulance!”

“Shit,” Stanley says as he falls to his knees next to Eddie. Beverly and Richie run up to knock on the closest front door. “What’re you doing, Big Bill?”

Bill doesn’t move.

_-_-_-_

The Losers’ Club commandeers an entire row of seats in the hospital waiting room, hunched over with their heads in their hands. Stan has to excuse himself to the bathroom at some point, coming back reeking of vomit. His face still looks green.

“We shouldn’t have let him overdo it,” Bev says guiltily, tears in her voice. “We were having such a good time, I—well, I guess I didn’t notice.”

“None of us did,” Ben sighs, swiping a tired hand down his face. “Bill always seems so invincible. Like, it should be me stumbling around hurting myself, not him.”

Mike’s voice is quiet when he says, “Eddie noticed.”

They all turn to look at Eddie in surprise and he feels himself blush hot. “He’s been having a rough time lately,” he says simply, keeping it generic so as not to break Bill’s confidence. “I didn’t want anything to make it worse.”

“We bypassed _worse_ ages ago, buddy. I’d say we’re somewhere south of _batshit _by now,” Richie says forlornly, slouching down in his chair. His unruly hair is frizzy from swimming in the quarry.

No one bothers to beep-beep him.

Visiting hours are long over when Bill’s doctor finally comes out to talk to them. Stan is asleep on Eddie’s shoulder, making cute snuffling sounds in his ear, but he wakes up quickly when Eddie pats him on the thigh. 

_Mmm?_ he hums sleepily and then Dr. Pearson launches into a speech about road rash and bruised ribs and sprained wrists. As he talks, Eddie marks them down in his head, noting with relief that it’s nothing too serious. Bill could have _died_, but somehow he came out of it with nothing that amounted to more than bumps and bruises. Eddie may just have to start hauling ass back to church on Sundays.

The ceiling of the hospital looks nothing like his bedroom at home, but Eddie sends up a quick prayer to it anyways.

It’s only once he’s done giving them the rundown that Dr. Pearson seems to realize who are missing. “Are the Denbrough parents present?” he asks in confusion, squinting at the pile of tired, gangly teenagers before him. “We notified them nearly two hours ago.”

“No, they haven’t shown,” Eddie says bitterly, blood feeling like fire in his veins. Of _course_ they haven’t. Why would they? That would require some semblance of giving a shit. “They probably won’t.”

Pearson blinks at him. “Are they out of town?”

“They were, but they’re back now. They’re just not _here_.”

At a loss, the doctor opens and closes his mouth a few times before settling on, “Once we finish patching up his road rash, he’ll be good to go, but we have to release him to someone of legal age. I don’t suppose any of you are eighteen?”

They could lie, but there’s no point. He knows the answer.

They wait for another half hour before they give it up for a loss and Mike calls his parents. The Hanlons are there within ten minutes, worry apparent on their faces. 

“Oh sweetheart,” Mrs. Hanlon breathes, pressing a hand to her mouth as the doctor brings Bill out. The entire right side of his face is covered in bandages, bright red blood seeping through in some places. Half of his eyebrow is gone. “You poor dear!”

Bill lets himself be hugged, turning his face gingerly to the side so the unmarred skin presses into Mrs. Hanlon’s shoulder. She rubs his back, up and down and up and down, until he goes boneless, collapsing against her. “I’m so glad you’re okay, honey,” she tells him and Eddie thinks he hears Bill whimper.

They can’t all fit in the Hanlon truck, so it’s only Mike and Eddie that end up squished in the back with Bill between them. Which is probably a blessing, because when they pull up to the Denbrough house to find Zack opening up the garage door, Bill’s face crumbles into something ugly and heartbroken.

“Oh,” is all Bill’s dad says when he sees them, barely lifting an eyebrow at his son’s fucked up face and limping gait. “I was on my way.”

Eddie bristles, hardly believing his ears.

But before he can get a word in edgewise, Will Hanlon hops out of the rusty old truck, the _smack_ of his workman’s boots sending up a cloud of dust on the driveway. His strong farmer’s frame makes a menacing picture in the light of the streetlamp. “The hospital called you _hours_ ago, Denbrough,” he says, voice calm but dark. “Your kid’s in pain and wants to go to sleep, but you left him there.”

“I said I was com—”

Hanlon shakes his head and Zack snaps his mouth shut. “Apologize to your son,” he orders. “Right now.”

No answer.

“I _said_: Apologize. To. Your. Son.”

Still nothing.

Mr. Hanlon looks like he’s gearing up for another, but something comes over Zack Denbrough just then, filling his eyes with righteous fervor. He pulls himself to his full height and marches down the drive toward the truck, making Mike gasp in fear and step in front of his father like a human shield. “Daddy,” he whispers in a panic. “Just leave it alone. We need—we need to get back out to the edge of town.”

“Not until this man tells his kid he’s sorry,” Hanlon says firmly, not a trace of fear in him. Personally, Eddie is fucking petrified. Mr. Denbrough is no Butch Bowers but he looks positively unhinged at the moment, face wild in the light of the moon. There’s no telling what he might do.

“You raise your kid how you want and I’ll raise mine how I want,” Denbrough finally says, toe-to-toe with Hanlon. “I was on my way, like I said. You just beat me to it.” He turns to Bill for the first time. “Get in the house and go to bed. Don’t forget to brush your teeth.”

“D-D-Dad, I—”

“_Now_.”

Lips trembling and eyes squeezed tight shut, Bill whirls on pained feet and races up the porch steps to disappear inside. 

“Bill!” Eddie shouts just once, hoping the sound travels through the door. Hoping it sounds like _I love you_ and _I’m so sorry_ and _you don’t deserve this_. All three of those things are true.

“I’ll pray for you, Denbrough,” is the last thing Mr. Hanlon says before rounding up his family and speeding off in the truck.

“Not me,” Eddie whispers to himself as he walks the last couple blocks home in the dark. “You can go straight to hell.”

_-_-_-_

“You look like Two-Face.”

“_Rich_,” Beverly says through clenched teeth, rounding on him with murder sparking in her eyes. There’s a new bruise on her jaw and every time Eddie looks at it he wants to scream. “Bill’s really hurt…be nice!”

Richie throws his hands in the air. “I _am_ being nice! Two-Face is one of my favorite comic book villains!”

“That doesn’t mean you need to—”

“It’s okay, Bev,” Bill cuts in, smile tugging at the intact half of his mouth. “I don’t m-mind. I know I look rot-rot-rotten.”

“Not rotten, just hurt,” Eddie reassures him, reaching across the lunch table to pat Bill on the wrist. “It’ll heal up. It’s already much better!”

“Doc says m-m-my eyebrow might not gr-grow back. Because of scar ti-ti-tissue.”

“Well, then you’ll rock the shit out of it,” Eddie says definitively and Bill laughs.

Later, Eddie finds himself holed up in the bathroom with Bill, standing on his tiptoes as he pulls the bloody bandages from his friend’s face as gently as possible. There’s a lot less than before – only one right above his eye and one stretching from his earlobe to the tip of his nose – but Bill still hisses through his teeth at the painful tug.

“I know, man,” Eddie says apologetically, patting his shoulder. “But we can’t let them get too dirty before changing them. Almost done.”

Hardly seeming to hear him, Bill says, voice soft and eyes distant, “Do y-y-you know what p-people are saying? About how I g-got hurt?”

Eddie’s stomach sinks. In a small town like Derry, gossip travels quickly and no one ever bothers to verify information before passing it along. He’s heard his fair share of the stories, ranging from far-fetched (_Did you hear the little Denbrough kid foiled a robbery at the neighbors’ house? Came out of it looking rough, but you should see the other guy!_) to just plain ridiculous (_Too bad ol’ Stuttering Bill got chased by that bear!_). There are other ones, too, but they’re too awful to bear repeating.

“No, what are they saying?”

Bill’s eyes flick to Eddie’s before quickly looking away, wincing the tiniest bit at the spread of the medicated ointment on his torn up skin. “They’re saying I tried to k-k-_kill_ myself.”

Eddie studiously focuses on the deep cut above Bill’s eye, pressing gauze to it and very carefully not meeting his friend’s watchful gaze. “Well, _were_ you trying to kill yourself?”

“Eddie!”

“It’s just a question.”

They fall into silence as Eddie finishes up with Bill’s face, taping the two gauzy bandages down and rubbing the special prescription lotion into the exposed, scabbed-over skin. Bill really _is_ looking better. Once the scabs clear up, he should only be a little mottled. Nothing that’ll turn heads. His lips still look painful, though, way too many layers of sensitive skin scraped clean off. It’ll be awhile before he’s able to speak or smile with his whole mouth again.

Eddie passes over the heavily medicated chapstick from Keene’s drugstore and it’s then that Bill finally whispers, “I don’t know.”

Eddie hugs him tight.

When the warning bell rings, signaling that they need to go their separate ways, Bill pulls back and asks, face pleading and open like they’re in second grade again, “Will you c-come to my h-house on Friday? Like we u-use-used to do? I’ll make d-d-d-dinner and you can stay over.”

“Of course,” Eddie promises, warmth creeping into every part of his body. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

_-_-_-_

The only problem with staying over at the Denbroughs’ is figuring out how to tell Ma. She’s the reason their Friday night sleepovers ended in the first place – something about _propriety_ and _decorum_ and _you boys are getting too old for this_. More fucking bullshit from the Sonia Kaspbrak playbook is all it was.

Eddie eats his guts out for the entire week until Friday rolls around and he can’t stall anymore. So, as he jams his mouth full of scrambled eggs like it’ll dissuade her from making him explain, he drops the bombshell.

She reacts just as well as he expected, which is to say: not well at all.

“With _Bill Denbrough_?” she shrieks, pressing her hands to her heart like it’s trying to climb out of her chest. “All night?”

“Yes, Ma,” Eddie says wearily. “My best friend. He’s having a tough go of it lately and I wanna be there for him. Isn’t that what I should do?”

Ma clucks her tongue. “Why does _that_ one have to be your best friend?” she asks, ignoring the rest of it. “The way he dresses—ugh, and how he keeps his hair! The way he looks at all of you—! Doesn’t it, I don’t know, _worry_ you, honey?”

Quite frankly, Eddie thinks his own wardrobe and propensity to daydream whilst staring at Stan’s pretty curls or Mike’s beautiful smile or Ben’s strong hands is a much bigger cause for “worry” than anything Bill’s doing, but he doesn’t say that. It’s something he used to be scared of, but being surrounded by the six best people in Derry – and probably the whole entire world – has filled him up with enough confidence to just let it be. He’s only seventeen – he doesn’t need to figure it out yet. He’ll get there.

“What worries me is your complete inability to care about anyone other than yourself,” Eddie says, but unlike their fight in the hospital bathroom, there’s no heat behind it. He’s more tired than he is angry.

Ma’s face goes dark, but she doesn’t say anything. She’s learned her lesson.

“Anyways, I just told you that so you don’t freak out and phone the police or the hospital when I don’t come home tonight,” Eddie explains. “I wasn’t actually asking for permission.”

“This is worse than being alone,” she mumbles under her breath, just loud enough for him to hear it, before she disappears into the living room, presumably to drown herself in her daytime soap operas.

With Ma’s words ringing in his ears, Eddie spends most of the school day watching the Losers and somewhere around lunchtime he realizes that they all look at each other the same way: like they’re looking at the stars or at Christmas lights or at the first reds and oranges of the autumn leaves. Like they’re something beautiful to behold, something that you’d never want to forget. Eddie knows it’s written all over his face, too. And if that’s wrong, if that’s worrying or sinful or whatever else, then so be it. They’ll be sinners together.

“You okay, Eds?” Ben asks, bumping his shoulder gently into Eddie’s. “Where’d you go?”

“I love you,” Eddie rasps out, unable to help himself, cheeks pink but not with embarrassment. “So much.”

Ben’s smile is almost as bright and as brilliant as his blue eyes. “Love you, too,” he says easily, leaning over to press their foreheads together just for a second. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

_Parents aren’t always right_, Eddie thinks privately to himself, letting his eyes travel around the lunch table from Loser to Loser. _And thank God for that._

_-_-_-_

It turns out that “making dinner” means that Bill digs bowls and spoons from the cabinets and lines up four different cereal boxes across the counter for Eddie to choose from. 

“I know it’s not m-m-much, but I don’t know how to cook and Mom w-w-won’t make me anything anymore, so—” Bill trails off, embarrassed. It makes Eddie’s heart hurt. There’s not a single aspect of Bill’s life that hasn’t been a complete fucking mess since Georgie’s death and the subsequent breakdown of his family unit. No wonder the poor kid’s so skinny.

“Dude, Ma never lets me eat this stuff,” Eddie says, not calling attention to his friend’s discomfort. “This is great!”

Eddie eats more cereal than he ever has in his life and then he and Bill go on a walk in the darkening streets, Eddie’s skin buzzing with sugar as they kick rocks and whistle at the dogs in people’s front yards. There hasn’t been a town-wide curfew since 1990, once the child killings and unexplainable clown sightings had been over for about a year, but traversing the neighborhoods as the sun goes down still makes Eddie nervous.

“It’s almost eight,” he whispers after a little while. “We should head back soon.”

“In a b-b-bit,” Bill promises, his final bandage – the one above his eye – almost glowing in the dark. “Let’s go a c-couple more blocks, yeah?”

There’s nothing on earth Eddie isn’t prepared to do for Bill, so he shrugs in agreement and continues on. But then they get to Costello Avenue and Bill stops in his tracks, almost making Eddie walk into his back.

“What is it?” he whispers, instantaneously full of fear. Fuck, he _knew_ they should’ve gone back. “Do you see something?”

“That’s F-F-Flannigan’s house,” Bill says, jaw clenched with anger. “That c-cop that threatened me.”

“So?”

“So he’s an _asshole_,” Bill spits and that’s all the warning Eddie gets before his friend scoops up a sizable rock from the side of the road and lets it fly, smashing the back windshield of the squad car parked in Flannigan’s driveway. A loud, squealing alarm fills the evening air.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Eddie screeches, heart pounding all the way up in his throat as lights come on in all the houses in the neighborhood. This isn’t a stupid little high school fight, as Beverly had so delicately put it…this is _vandalizing_ _police property_ and they’re going to end up in a jail cell so quickly it’ll make their heads spin. “Bill!”

“Run!” is all Bill says, grabbing Eddie by the hand and dragging him down the road to turn the corner. They run for what feels like ages, Eddie’s shitty faux-asthmatic lungs hitching in his chest as he gasps for air. He feels like he’s going to die.

They don’t stop until they’re at the high school, Bill wrenching open the doors on the broken down school bus and shoving Eddie inside, cackling when Eddie trips on the steps and falls to his knees. The laughter combined with the new hole in his favorite jeans grates on Eddie’s nerves and he hears himself snap, “Fuck you, Denbrough. I’m serious! _Fuck. You._” He doesn’t think he’s ever been this mad at one of his friends. “You’re a really shitty friend, you know that?”

“Just get on the fl-fl-floor,” Bill whispers, taking a swan dive for the center aisle of the bus. He lies down, spread-eagle. “I hear sirens!”

Sure enough, it sounds like the entire fucking police department is after them, a chorus of sirens blaring in the distance. Unable to stop himself, Eddie jams his inhaler into his mouth and takes way too many hits, comforting himself with the knowledge that it’s just water anyway. He’s not going to get sick from it. Then, once he can breathe again, he whines, “I’m not getting down there! It’s all dirty! Do you know how many people have probably had sex in here?”

“J-just in this past m-mon-month?” Bill says, rolling his eyes. “Do you wanna get c-caught? You gotta hide!”

The sirens are getting closer. Letting out a displeased huff of air and stamping one petulant foot, Eddie finally gets down on the floor, curling himself into a ball to minimize the damage. The floor is _sticky_. It smells like who-knows-what. God, he can feel it getting into his _hair_. By the time the cop cars mercifully pass by, the sirens getting fainter and fainter as they turn down Center Street, Eddie is crying.

“This is so gross,” he weeps, feeling like a pathetic little kid but unable to fight it. “Can’t we get up yet?”

Bill ever so slowly rises to his knees, peeking out the smeared school bus windows. After a few unending moments where he holds stock-still, he finally nods. “C-C-Coast is clear,” he murmurs. “I th-think we’re safe.”

Eddie flings himself onto cleanest-looking bench seat, watching with narrowed eyes as Bill sinks into the one across from him. All it takes is the slightest lip-lift from his friend and Eddie is screaming. 

“What’s gotten into you?” he demands, wagging his finger like he’s someone’s dad. He’s too mad to care. His jeans are ripped and his hair is sticky and he doesn’t even recognize the boy in front of him and he feels like he’s going to lose his fucking mind. “I feel like I don’t even know you anymore! I’ve been tolerant, okay? I _know_ how much everything sucks…I _know_ that our entire lives have devolved into some horrifying shitshow that half the time doesn’t even feel real. We can’t sleep and we can’t eat and we can’t even walk to school by ourselves and—! Whatever, the point is: I _get_ telling off teachers and running away to get drunk and getting into fights and all that bullshit, but throwing yourself down Up-Mile Hill? Trashing police cars? That shit isn’t okay! You’ve always been the best of us, Big Bill…why are you suddenly trying to be someone else?” Eddie takes a deep breath, scrubbing angrily at the tears on his face. “I can’t stand by while you—”

Then Bill’s lips are on Eddie’s and the forceful words dissolve into a shocked, confused little whimper.

“You l-l-love me, right?” Bill asks when he pulls back, hands cupping Eddie’s face. He’s perched on his knees at the end of Eddie’s seat, his chest heaving and his eyebrows pulled together imploringly. “Eds?”

Eddie’s body is rigid and his eyes are wide, mouth tingling. “Of course I do, but—” He breaks off, unsure what to say.

It turns out Eddie doesn’t need to say a single damn thing, because that’s when Bill chokes out, “My parents don’t,” and starts bawling.

It all falls into place, right there squished together in a torn up school bus seat with the moon rising through the dirty windows, and the anger drains out of Eddie so quickly it leaves him lightheaded. “Billy,” he says sadly, tugging gently on his wrist so he’ll settle down into the seat more comfortably. “Don’t say that.”

“Well, it’s _true_!” Bill cries, muffling his sobs behind trembling hands. “For the l-long-longest time I thought they were just grieving, you know? But then I realized they r-really just don’t give a sh-sh-shit. It was G-G-Georgie they loved! Not me! And if n-n-nothing I do is g-gonna make them love me, why am I tr-try-trying so hard to be good?”

Eddie puts an arm around him. “Because you _are_ good. You’re the best.” Even after everything, he means it with all of his heart.

“No, I’m _not_.” Bill wrenches away from Eddie like he can’t stand to be touched with gentle hands. “I got my little brother _killed_! And then I dragged all of you along with me to fight It and ruined your lives. Look at Stan! Look at _Bev_! They’re fucked up and that’s on _me_. And then I shot that fucker in the head and I _liked_ it. I felt so strong and powerful, like I could do anything! I haven’t been a good person in a long time, Eds, so why pretend? It doesn’t change anything, so what’s the point?”

Eddie gapes at him, shocked by both the sheer volume of self-loathing in Bill’s words and the fact that he didn’t stutter once. The only other time that’s ever happened was on Neibolt Street, right before they killed the clown. Eddie takes another puff of his inhaler.

Then the dark clouds seem to lift and Bill’s face lights up. He gingerly wipes his runny nose onto the sleeve of his flannel shirt, careful not to scrub at the healing scabs, before exclaiming, “But _you _love me! You’ve al-al-always loved me!”

With that, he climbs into Eddie’s lap and kisses him again. It’s Eddie’s first real kiss and his mind is screaming at him to _do something, dammit!_ but it takes a little bit before he can get his body to respond. Once he’s managed to get control of himself, he pulls firmly and emphatically away.

“Okay, okay, okay,” he murmurs quietly, hands curled tightly into the front of Bill’s shirt. He turns his face to the side, letting Bill’s poor injured lips press against his cheek instead. Bill isn’t dissuaded, kissing over towards Eddie’s ear. “That’s enough…stop it.”

Confused, Bill sits back. There are tears on his face. “Why?”

God, Eddie is so fucking sad. His lips tremble when he says, voice high and heartbroken, “Because this isn’t the kind of love you need right now, buddy.”

There’s a moment of hesitation as the statement hangs in the air, then Bill curls into himself and starts crying once again in earnest. “I’m sorry,” he wails, covering the good side of his face with his hand. “I’m s-s-so sorry. Please don’t hate me!”

“Fuck, I could never hate you, Bill,” Eddie says and he’s crying now, too. Rather than pushing Bill off his lap, he wraps his arms around his friend’s shoulders and pulls him down into a tight hug. He can feel Bill’s tears on his neck. “Just come here, man.”

They stay like that long after Eddie’s legs fall asleep, long after Bill’s tears quiet, long after the moon gets so high it’s hidden above the roof of the bus. Eddie rubs Bill’s back and shushes him every time he tries to apologize again, for what Eddie isn’t sure. It doesn’t really matter – he’s already forgiven it all. 

Finally, Bill pulls back, a sheepish grin pulling at the good side of his mouth. “I have to go to the bathroom,” he admits. “We should pr-probably get back anyway.”

Eddie wrinkles his nose. “Yeah, please get off of me,” he says, but it’s teasing. Bill laughs and it’s the best sound Eddie has ever heard.

As they jump out of the rusty old bus, landing on feet buzzing with pins and needles, Eddie says quietly, hoping to God it doesn’t ruin the good mood, “There are lots of people who love you. Cling to those who do and to hell with the ones that don’t.”

“Yeah,” Bill agrees, squeezing Eddie’s hand. “To hell with them.”

_-_-_-_

There’s a moment of awkwardness as they get ready for bed, Bill standing at the edge of his mattress in his oversized pajamas, wringing his hands. He’s blushing.

“You d-d-don’t have to share a b-bed with me if you don’t want,” he offers, like it’s some kind of gift. “I kn-know I made things weird.”

If it’s a gift, Eddie doesn’t want it. The thought is reprehensible, honestly. “Shut up, no you didn’t,” he says, flinging the covers down and climbing into the bed without a second’s hesitation. “Besides, I’m not exactly opposed to—um.” He stops, heart beating wildly in his chest.

Bill’s good eyebrow climbs all the way up to his hairline. “Kissing boys?” he guesses.

Now it’s Eddie’s turn to blush. He nods, avoiding Bill’s eyes. “Yeah. I don’t know what’s what yet, but yeah.”

When Eddie finally gathers enough courage to look over, Bill is smiling. “Cool,” he says, sliding beneath the covers next to Eddie. Their shoulders bump together and it’s warm. “I’m honored you’d t-t-tell me.”

“You’re my best friend.”

“You’re m-mine, too.”

And that’s a gift Eddie readily accepts.

_-_-_-_

At the start of Monday’s Algebra class, Bill drops a card onto Mrs. Minder’s desk that has her pressing a hand to her heart and exclaiming, “Why, thank you, Mr. Denbrough! I’m truly touched.”

“I mean it, ma’am,” Bill says, ducking his head. “It won’t hap-happen again.”

Eddie is so damn proud of him.

They wind up at the quarry yet again that afternoon, but this time there’s no booze. No, this time there’s just laughter and warm sun and Eddie’s head resting on Mike’s shoulder as the Losers’ Club makes plans for the summer. Most of the talk centers around driver’s licenses and bonfires and movie dates at the Aladdin, but there’s some serious stuff, too, like college visits and SAT tests. The future is careening ever closer and Eddie is beyond grateful to not be alone.

Across the way, Stan and Beverly have their heads pillowed on each of Bill’s thighs as he stares down at them like stars, like Christmas lights, like autumn leaves. When Stan cracks an eye open, he giggles at the love-struck look on Bill’s face. “What’re you doing?” he laughs.

“Clinging,” Bill says simply, flicking his eyes up to Eddie’s, face soft. 

Eddie smiles at him. “And continuing on,” he adds. “It’s all we can do, really.”

“My god, you guys should write Hallmark Cards,” Richie groans, clapping his hands over his ears like he can’t bear to hear it. “I’m gonna barf.”

They all laugh, happy and bright, and Eddie thinks _yeah_. Yeah, they’re continuing on and it’s the bravest thing they’ve ever done.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> The tumblr post for this work is [here](http://arolou.tumblr.com/post/189183352598/i-will-steady-your-hand-when-youre-losing-your) so if you liked this, consider giving it a reblog :)


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